“I’d probably avoid him too,” Hunter observed, setting his hands on his hips. “He didn’t have much of value to say about you or your life.”

He never did. With a meaningful glance toward the tools, Trisha said, “The floor. I think we should -”

“Is he your only family?”

“Now who’s full of questions?”

“Is he?”

She sighed. “Yep. Just good old Uncle Vic and me. The floor, Hunter.”

“He sounded… demanding.”

“He’s military,” she said with a shrug, wondering at his curiosity. “My aunt wasn’t as bad, but she attended mass daily, sometimes more than once. They aren’t exactly what you would call openhearted or forgiving.”

“Sounds tough. And you were all alone with them, no siblings to deflect some of the anger?”

She never talked about this, not even to Celia. Her new outlook on life – namely, being positive no matter what – didn’t allow it.

Diversion was self-defense. Backing away from both him and his touch, she said pointedly, “The floor, Hunter. We’ve got to finish it today.”

Again, he just looked at her, his green eyes seeing far more than she wanted him to. “I’m sorry he upset you, Trisha.”

He said this so lightly, with such tenderness and understanding, that her throat tightened again. “I’m… just fine.”

“Then why are you twisting the phone cord as if you need something to strangle?”

Looking down at her tangled-up fingers in the long cord, she grimaced. “Can we drop this? Please? I’m really rotten with pity.”

“I’m not -” He broke off when she walked away from him, heading to where they’d been working. “Gee, I guess we’re done talking,” he muttered, and followed her.

She knelt, keeping her head down. What was it about this man that stripped her bare? “Are you going to help, or what?”

Yeah, he was going to help. Probably more than he wanted, but dammit if she didn’t look unexpectedly small, alone, miserable. God, he was a sucker. Dropping to his knees beside her, he looked into her drawn face. “I’m going to help.”

“Good.” She sniffed, blew her nose.

His heart broke a little. “For the record, I don’t pity you.”

“No?” One side of her mouth quirked. “Why not?”

“You’re too damned ornery.”

She laughed, as he’d hoped she would. Some of her color had come back, he noted, and that relieved him. For one horrified moment, when he’d been pushing her for answers as if she’d been an experiment of his, he’d thought she was going to burst into tears.

It had been a favorite tactic of his mother, and his two ex-fiancées.

Hunter Adams didn’t do well with weepy women.

But Trisha, she did something to him, something he was unaccustomed to. Listening to her battle with her uncle for pride and confidence stirred within him a fierce protectiveness he hadn’t known he possessed.

It also gave him an insight into the woman who, up until now, he’d looked at only superficially. It shamed him to realize it, but it was the truth.

Trisha Malloy had become far more than just a shell. Beneath the slightly off-center purveyor of fine lingerie lived a surprisingly tough, intelligent, and lovely woman. One, he suddenly realized, he wanted to know better.

Hunter worked days and nights for most of the following week. His current project, only twelve months away from launch, had kicked into high gear. As principal investigator, team leader, and payload specialist, all aspects of the flight would be under his command. The planetary surface lander they were to launch from the shuttle, the one that would study the soil content on Mars, had been ready for some time, but there was still a long list of preparations to carry out, all of which was his responsibility. An exciting task, one he typically thrived on.

But it became difficult to concentrate fully when his new project, the duplex, weighed heavily on his mind. He’d moved his spartan belongings into the lower apartment the weekend before. Now, for the first time in his many years of traveling and hotel living, he needed his own furniture.

He liked that very much, and as he jogged at week’s end, he thought over his week.

On Monday, he’d had most of Eloise’s furniture picked up by the center he’d donated it to. Now suddenly, or maybe not so suddenly, he’d become eager to dig in and fix the place up.

It was a joke, or it would be if he had told anyone his plans. Dr. Hunter Adams drooling over fixing up a house. But the yearning deep within him, to have a real home that belonged to him, couldn’t be denied.

For now he’d start with the lower portion of the house. He told himself he didn’t want to take on too much at once, though he knew it was that he couldn’t bring himself to fight Trisha for full possession.

He hadn’t spent any time with her all week. Which was good, he told himself. It meant she hadn’t destroyed or ruined anything. It meant she hadn’t caused any trouble. He’d heard her music, and several times he’d heard her laughter.

Halfway through the week, he’d come home at dusk to hear a lawn mower. Curious, since he knew he hadn’t paid a gardener, he walked through to the back and suddenly stopped, riveted by a surge of surprise and pure lust.

Trisha, hair piled precariously on top of her head, singing at the top of her lungs and rocking her head back and forth to the tune only she could hear in her headphones, was mowing the lawn. The cropped white T-shirt she wore clung to her damp skin, becoming sheer enough to reveal the outline of her nipples.

His mouth went dry.

Not noticing she had an audience, she moved past him, sashaying her cute little butt, barely covered in the tiniest, shortest cutoffs he’d ever seen.

On her next turn through the yard, she caught sight of him and started in surprise. Stopping, she flipped up the headphones and smiled sweetly – completely unaware of what she’d done to him.

He’d covered the shock of his reaction to her by muttering grumpily and taking over the job of mowing. That she’d relinquished the chore with only a knowing smile, then disappeared, hadn’t improved his mood, or his raging hormones.

The next day he’d come home to find her on the front lawn, giving Duff a bath.

“He rolled on the driveway, under my car,” she explained over the yowling feline objections.

“So you decided to punish him by sentencing him to a bath?” he asked, watching in amusement as Duff’s ears flattened against his head when she carefully mopped his face.

“He was covered in oil,” Trisha explained, leaning back on her knees.

His gaze dipped, and he got an eyeful down her gaping, drenched sundress, enough to render him speechless for a minute. By the time he could speak, words weren’t necessary.

Because Trisha, with a wicked smile, threw a soaking wet washcloth in his face. Pulling it away slowly, he glared at her. “What was that for?”

“Take a picture,” she suggested with that irritating secret smile. “It lasts longer.”

“You’re not going to provoke me into a water fight.”

“No?” Those full lips pouted. “You’re no fun.”

“So I’ve been told,” he retorted. And, hard as a rock, he’d walked away.

The next morning, while shaving, he’d heard her shower running. Standing there in front of his bathroom sink, staring at himself in the mirror, he’d pictured what she was doing directly above him. He’d gotten hard, again. The image of her wet and soapy had stayed with him for the day, making it necessary for him to spend most of it behind his desk.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been unable to control his own body, and felt, quite ridiculously, like a teenager.

Now it was Friday, and as his feet pounded the cement, he realized he hadn’t seen Trisha the day before, and he wondered what she’d done, if she’d had a good day.

You’re no fun.

Trisha’s words echoed in his head. No, he was no fun, not in her eyes. Which was exactly why he had to stop thinking about her. She was so different, so full of life – happy to live her life as she saw fit, as wildly as she wanted.

He was the complete opposite. Even if he decided to risk it for himself and drown himself in her beauty, they were doomed. He could never make someone like her happy for long.

He had never made anyone happy.

As he ran down the dark driveway, past the newly mown lawn, he glanced at his car and came to an abrupt stop.

The scrawled words on his windshield – in what looked suspiciously like lipstick – read:

I’m sorry about the little dent on your fender! Think you could scoot over just a bit more when you park? Keep smiling, Trisha.

Beneath that, she’d drawn a happy face.

Disbelieving, Hunter strode to the back of his car and swore colorfully into the predawn morning. His left bumper had been neatly rearranged, dotted with red paint – the very color of Trisha’s ancient Nissan.

He jerked his gaze up and studied the amply wide driveway that ran alongside of his large house. Then he glanced at the equally wide street and the front of the house, where at least three cars could have fitted. Unbelievable. A small white, flapping piece of paper had been attached to the fender, catching his eye. With a snort of disgust, he ripped it off, brought it close in the waning dawn and read:

Ran out of lipstick! I’m really, really sorry. Hope you have a nice day, Hunter. (This time I insist on paying the damages!) See ya soon.

A little laugh escaped him. “Unbelievable,” he repeated out loud. He spared a last look of disgust at Trisha’s offending red car, which didn’t appear damaged beyond a few missing flecks of paint. Shaking his head, he shoved the note in his pocket, thankful he’d run, because it looked as though he would definitely need the stress relief today.